Bedfellows
by JasNutter
Summary: Sherlock carelessly sets his bed on fire. John finds himself needing to share. Unforeseen attraction ensues.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock", John calmly walked out of the bedroom he'd walked in to inspect moments ago. "Sherlock, did you set your bed on fire?"

The so addressed man, who was lying on the couch, fiddling with the violin with his eyes closed, grunted a yes.

"Oh." John looked back at the charred remains of what was once a large, comfortable bed. "Are you going to clean that up any time soon?"

The detective grunted his answer again. No.

"Okay." John shifted, and pulled the door closed in hopes of ridding the flat of the smell of smoke. "May I ask _how_ you set your bed on fire?"

Sherlock sighed and shifted, sitting up blearily with his hair tousled.

"I was testing flame colours."

"In bed?" John asked, incredulously.

"I was tired." Sherlock told him simply.

Well, fair enough. John shrugged.

"Tea? "he enquired to which his eccentric flat mate grunted an affirmative.

"So did you just sleep around and do nothing today?" John asked as he busied himself with the kettle. "Besides burning down your bedroom, of course."

"I borrowed a pair of your pajamas", Sherlock answered him.

John frowned and craned his neck to look at the slumping man on the couch. Sure enough, he was clad in John's favorite cotton pajamas that stopped just mid-shin. John frowned some more. He was almost certain the three days old t-shirt Sherlock had on belonged to him as well.

"You've got to stop stealing my clothes, Sherlock." He reprimanded, like the many times he already had in the past, as he pulled out two mugs.

"Borrowing", came the answering groan. "You know how much I despise laundry, John. It's utterly, mind-numbingly tedious."

John shook his head with a long suffering sigh, biting back the retort as it rose. It would be wasted on Sherlock anyway.

"I'm terribly bored, John", he whined dramatically, shuffling into the kitchen with his blue dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. "No case! It's been weeks! My brain is rotting!" He yanked open the refrigerator door and stuffed his curly head into it, as though trying to idle the rotting process.

"You had one three days ago", John reminded him, nudging him over to one side to extract milk. "Why don't you just call Lestrade, see if he's got something."

Sherlock let out another distressed groan, slightly muffled by the fridge. Seeming to decide his nose had gone cold enough, (it had turned a rather interesting shade of pink),he withdrew.

"We both know Lestrade is a complete idiot", he said loftily, leaning against the fridge. "But even he, much to my surprise, manages to solve cases on his own sometimes. And besides, "he flounced back into the living room as John rolled his eyes, "they're all boring. Not even fives." He threw himself back on the couch, causing it to creak ominously. Always the drama queen.

John thought it was rather adorable. Then he proceeded to chuckle at the thought of how Sherlock would react if called adorable. He would be pleased, John reckoned, the rampant narcissist that he was.

Two hours later, the steaming mugs of tea and the faint smell of smoke were long since gone , John, having had dinner, sat barefooted on his armchair with a medical journal and Sherlock moaned and groaned and quite nearly wailed into the sofa cushions. An hour into this performance, John's patience, wearing thin already, snapped.

"Sherlock will you eat the dinner I so courteously cooked and set in front of you and stop being a massive five year old!"

Sherlock whimpered pathetically in response.

"You sound like you're dying."

"I may not last the night", Sherlock sniffed and toed his dinner away. "I'm not hungry," He said, slumping back, basking in all his histrionic glory, of which, amusing as it was, John had, decidedly, had enough for a day.

"Well", he said, stretching languidly and setting the journal down. "Since I am your flat mate and, fortunately, not your mother, I'm going to go up to bed. Try not to howl too much."

Sherlock only grunted into the cushions.

* * *

John didn't usually go to bed in only boxers, preferring to sleep his cotton pajamas. He realized only now, as he stripped and walked to the dresser, that Sherlock, being possibly the most thoughtless git of all the thoughtless gits the world harbored, had taken every pajama bottom he owned.

"Inconsiderate dick", John muttered huffily as he yanked back the covers, considering locking his bedroom whenever he left the house. Or at least his dresser. He sighed; settling down into the mattress, hoping Sherlock wouldn't suddenly throw a fit of pique and attack the poor violin or send the entire flat up in flaming pieces.

None of the above happened and John drifted off to a peaceful, happy sleep, contentedly dreaming of soft rabbits wrapped up in jumpers.

But when did good things ever last.

No sooner than he had begun dreaming, John awoke groggily to a dip in his mattress, and opened this eyes blearily to Sherlock's strangely incandescent pupils staring down at him intently.

"_What the – "_, startled, John scrambled back and almost fell over the edge of the bed in shock, unconsciously clutching the sheets to cover up his chest, to which Sherlock's eye brows sprung up, pale face illuminated by the street lamps outside. John groaned.

"What do you _want?" _ He asked, glancing at the alarm clock. It was barely one in the morning. "If it's a case you can go alone, because I need sleep."

"It's not a case", Sherlock said, twisting the sheet under his fingers and looking away from John and down at his trouser clad lap. John's trousers, one might add. One might also add that he almost, strangely, seemed shy.

John groaned and lay down again, turning his back to Sherlock. "Then go get some sleep, Sherlock. Or conduct an experiment or something. Stop bothering me."

"There are no experiments to conduct", Sherlock whined. "And the telly is boring."

John screwed his eyes tight and opened them, pursing his lips in frustration. "_Sleep_ then, Sherlock. Go to sleep."

Sherlock remained motionless for a whole minute, during when John tried to ignore his presence and drift back into that amazing dream he rarely ever had. All of a sudden the pressure on the mattress was shifting once more and John breathed a sigh of relief.

He breathed it all too soon.

Deftly lifting the sheets, Sherlock slid between them, and curled up on the bed, head on John's pillow, breathing down his neck. John shuddered at the intrusion of personal space, Sherlock's breath making the hairs at the back of his neck stand.

"What in sodding hell are you doing?" John moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and shifting until he was right at the very edge of the small bed. They were still lying very close to one another.

Sherlock's reply somehow ghosted into his ear and raised a parade of goosebumps down his neck. "I don't have a bed remember."

"And whose fault is that?" John snapped irritably, head whipping to the look at the dark haired man on his pillow. Sherlock recoiled, looking hurt and shifted uncertainly.

John sighed, feeling an unreasonable pang of guilt.

"Fine", he snapped, turning his back to his insane friend again. "Fine, stay here."

Sherlock hummed happily, and shifted under the sheets, knee brushing John's bare leg. John groaned, suddenly painfully aware of his state of undress.

"Your crotch is ridiculously close to my arse", he stated.

"Mmm", Sherlock replied.

"I'm in my boxers and you're in my pajamas."

"Mmm."

"Do you realize how _gay_ we are?"

"Mmmhmm". His forehead came to rest on John's shoulder.

John sighed and drifted, once again to wonderfully cozy dreams. He would wake up hours later to the beeping of the alarm clock, entangled in a conglomeration of warm, comfortable limbs.

* * *

**Hi :) **

**This is meant to be multi-chaptered, originially, where the relationship slowly develops, but i'm also considering leaving it as a one shot. Please leave a review and tell me what you think. ^_^ **


	2. Chapter 2

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _

John heard a deep, rumbling groan as he vaguely floated away from a fantastic dream. The warm, snug pillow he was cuddling with reached out and slammed the maddening alarm off. John hummed in approval and pressed himself closer against the rather prudent pillow, reveling in it's comforting warmth.

_Wait. _John's brain suddenly flailed, trying to process absurd information. Moving and shutting off the alarm did not fall into the realms of normal pillow behavior. John cracked one eye open fuzzily as his brain tried to come on-board.

He was met with a disarray of curls that faintly tickled his neck, the scent of fading, spicy cologne and a faint smell of ammonia. Fighting out of his grogginess, John's other eye followed suit, and he saw a bit of pale skin under the black mop. A nose poked him in the neck.

John came to two uncomfortable realizations: 1) His snug pillow happened to be Sherlock and they were currently wrapped around each other with Sherlock breathing into the crook of his neck. 2) His morning wood was quite rudely poking Sherlock in the hip.

Not good. John froze.

The man in his frozen arms snorted and squirmed, protesting the sudden stiffness. A bunch of curls entered John's mouth as Sherlock wriggled and threw his leg over John's hip, essentially straddling him. Something hard and heavy and warm came to rest on John thigh.

With an embarrassingly loud, undignified squeak, one which John would vehemently deny ever emitting if asked, John scrambled out of Sherlock's grip to the edge of the bed and promptly fell off, arms waving, and landed with a huge crash, grunting as his forehead slammed onto the floor. This, of course, caused Sherlock to sit up with a jolt on the bed above him, staring at him quizzically as he pushed himself up, legs splayed out and rubbing his forehead.

"John", Sherlock said sleepily, yet managing to look at John as though he were a complete imbecile. "What are you rolling about on the floor for?"

John glared at him indignantly, fighting the urge to inform the mad man that it was the uncalled for penis - attack by his very penis, by the way, that had sent him flying over the edge squawking like a frightened chicken. He scrambled up, thanking his body for the softening of his ardor and eyed Sherlock warily. Were they going to talk about the decidedly not-very-straight-best-mates-behavior-event of sleeping together? Because he'd happily sail out the window and to his death than have that conversation. John braced himself.

The detective threw off the sheets and swung his legs off the bed, yawning as he maneuvered himself out the room, erection still tenting his (John's) pajamas. John was letting out a huge breath of relief, until he heard a faint _oomph_ from outside the bedroom.

"What are you doing up here?" boomed Lestrade's voice. "Did you just wake up? _You _sleep? Why haven't you answered your –" he broke off suddenly and goggled at John as he stupidly ambled out of the bedroom, realizing, far too late, that he was clad only in his boxers.

_Now's the time to dive out that window, Watson,_ a voice in John's head supplied helpfully_. _

Lestrade gaped at John - John stared guiltily back - and whipped his head around so quickly towards Sherlock that he cricked his neck and groaned.

"You two – "he gasped, massaging his neck and turning around on the spot to look at John, who stood frozen on the doorway. "Oh god, _really?"_

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and breezed past him as John shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, no", he said hurriedly, blood making a mad rush to his cheeks and setting up camp there. "Sherlock burned down his bed see, and we just slept together. I mean-"he grimaced as Lestrade's eyes bulged and sighed. "We only shared the bed."

Lestrade gave him a look that very much said _'yeah right'_.

"I just can't imagine him in bed, you know." Lestrade said half an hour later, as John followed him out of the room containing a dead body and blood-painted wall, (Sherlock had told them all in no uncertain terms to either stop breathing or to leave). "I mean, what's he like? Is he loud? Did you top? No don't tell me that."

John thought, as his face heated up, that he would die of mortification.

"We _didn't_", He told Lestrade through gritted teeth. "We _only_ shared the bed."

He was obviously ignored.

"I mean, he just seems so uninterested, you know. I suppose he's always taken interest in you, though. The way he looks at you – "

John, face and ears burning as an officer stood nearby clearly listening in, had never been happier to see Sherlock twirl through a doorway and start chucking rapid deductions at their faces.

"_Not _the work of an insane, jealous boyfriend, as I know you idiots have guessed. Look for a petite red-headed woman, mid thirties and with a slight limp. I suggest you scour bars but especially the one right across the hospital around the corner, around ten or eleven p.m." He tugged on his black leather gloves as Lestrade scribbled the information down, not bothering with the 'how do you knows'. They were clearly past that. "Honestly Lestrade, this was horribly straightforward and I'm, as always, slightly embarrassed for you. "

"Come along, John", he said, striding past the pair. "I've got an experiment I simply must try and time is of the essence!"

Lestrade coughed. John didn't even want to think about how he interpreted that one.

The rest of the day passed by with John being late to work, as usual, a nurse showering him with flirtatious attention, which he enthusiastically reciprocated, a number of exceedingly boring medical conditions, some flying vomit, and random texts from Sherlock updating him constantly on the results of a rather disgusting mucus experiment. After a take-away dinner, a one-sided conversation with Sherlock I'm-in-my-mind-palace Holmes, a blog-post that took ages to complete, and, again, no pajama bottoms, John slipped exhaustedly between his sheets only to be plagued for the next couple of hours by horrifying, blood-splattered nightmares.

It was barely 2 am when John jerked up, panting and drenched in cold sweat with his heart threatening to jump up to this throat, out of his mouth, and run hurriedly away. Laying back down on his damp pillow and pushing back the moist hair sticking to his forehead with clammy fingers, he tried to calm his breathing.

Unable to close his eyes for fear that the image of the young boy, screaming in anguish with his arm torn clean off his body would form once again behind his eyelids, John watched minutes pass by. He heard Sherlock enter the room, felt the mattress dip under his weight and then felt his leg slide up against his own. He sighed as Sherlock's heavy arm fell across his waist and closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth of the lean body.

He fell asleep listening to Sherlock murmur sweetly about mucus.

* * *

**That aside, thank you so so so much to every one who reviewed or followed or favorited because you made me very very happy. Keep it coming please, and feel free to point out any errors if you find them ^_^.**

**ALSO, you lovelies, I've been editing this. If you've just started reading this, everything will be edited, so if you like, you could skim across the changes. Not that much change though, but I happen to be adding chapters and posting on AO3. Might also add them here, if I can figure out how to do it.**


	3. Chapter 3

Because Sherlock, the owl that he was, complete with the odd, discomfiting stare, came to bed sometime in the wee hours of dawn, John decided to leave the snoring nocturnal bird as he was. Freeing himself from the spidery entanglement of arms and legs, he tucked the sheets around Sherlock and padded down the stairs.

Stretching languidly, John trudged into the bathroom yawning, peed without bothering with the door and exited, only to be greeted by an absolutely petrifying sight of a livid Mrs. Hudson seething at Sherlock's bedroom door, looking as though she might have a stroke any minute. Or spontaneously combust and burn down the rest of the flat.

Well. Shit.

Fighting down a yelp of utter terror, John tried to slip out the door, as quietly as his tippy-toes would take him, back into the comfort of a warm sleeping Sherlock.

"Please tell me, John dear", hissed a low, furious voice behind him, stopping him cold on the spot, "that you weren't present when this monstrosity happened."

John turned around slowly, feeling as though his intestines had turned to stone, his spine automatically straightening under Mrs. Hudson's irate glower. Not trusting himself to speak, John feverishly shook his head in a vehement no.

"Did you _know _what the mad man did to that room?"

John wondered wildly if he could make it out the window without Mrs. Hudson noticing. "Y-yes."

Mrs. Hudson made a sudden move towards him and John cringed, feeling as though his stony intestines had dropped out his bottom. The flaying he anticipated, however, didn't come as she strode straight past him and stomped up the stairs.

John let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and, foolishly, stayed rooted on the spot, ears prickling for some sort of indicator of Sherlock being murdered. The indicator came seconds later in a form of a loud yowl.

John waited with bated breath through series of bumps, scratches, scuffles and '_ow'_s, desperately praying for his incorrigible best mate's life. Half a minute later the incorrigible best mate was being pulled through the doorway John was staring at, still in one piece but comically bent to the left, face contorted in pain, while Mrs. Hudson's strong, little hands dragged him by the left ear across the flat.

John winced in pity and absently put a hand over his own left ear as Sherlock was harshly pulled into the ruins of his bedroom, grip on his ear unrelenting.

"What have you got to say for yourself, young man", Mrs. Hudson said, and John fervently thanked all the deities he knew of for not putting him in the receiving end of that withering glare.

"It was an accident", said Sherlock, voice strained and oddly high-pitched. "Can I have my ear back, please?"

The poor received got another tweak, eliciting a cut off howl. John merely watched in sympathy and embarrassment for his friend.

"Mrs. Hudson, perhaps h-he's", John, the ex-soldier, started, and instantly cowered under the nasty look the enraged landlady threw him.

"You will clean this up and fix this room, you understand?"

"Yes. Yes!" Sherlock squeaked with alacrity. "I will. Please."

"You will clean it right now", she snapped with all the sternness of Molly Weasley and John's French tutor combined. With was beyond frightening, by the way. So naturally it was hardly surprising when Sherlock, half-naked in John's too-short trousers, rapidly jumped into action as soon as the bright red ear was released, scurrying across the flat for a dustpan. Mrs. Hudson then turned to him and he fought the urge to bolt. He was, he rather embarrassedly noted, only clad in pants almost nearly the color of Sherlock's ear after all.

"Oh, don't look as though I might rip out your neck, dear." Mrs. Hudson said, and gently took his arm, steering him towards the stairs. "You go get dressed. I'll whip you some breakfast. You look as though you don't eat at all. Especially you", she raised her voice and threw a stern glance in the general direction of Sherlock.

After taking a hasty shower, pulling on the customary jumper and flipping through the newspaper at the newly some-odd-liquid-free table, Sherlock, with black smudges marring his pretty scowl, joined him at the table.

"Just this once, dears", Mrs. Hudson said, piling heaps of scrambled eggs into both their plates, and moving to get coffee. "Not your housekeeper."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson", John said, watching Sherlock warily as he uncharacteristically shoveled a huge spoonful of eggs into his mouth and chewed, cheeks bulging.

"It's not a problem dear", said she, watching Sherlock approvingly. "So sweet of you to share your bed with Sherlock," she continued, and John shifted uncomfortably. "The boy sleeps less than he eats."

John nodded. True, that.

"And there is nothing that works better for insomnia than a good night of love making. It seems to be doing wonders for his appetite as well." The old lady went on to say, patting John's arm.

John promptly chocked on his eggs and spluttered, blushing forcefully while Sherlock enthusiastically cut into a grape fruit. "N-no, we aren't – "

"Oh, it's all right, dear. I think it's wonderful," Mrs. Hudson failed to reassure. "Looks like you won't be needing two bedrooms after all." She winked at him slyly as she walked out. He gaped at her exiting figure, fork hanging limply in mid-air.

"_Her _too?" John turned to groan, frustrated, at Sherlock, but Sherlock had already pushed his plate away and lumberd off to the couch, looking as though he were under some dreadful suffering.

"Ate too much", he groaned, laying back and rubbing his stomach. "I'll be sick now."

Sighing resignedly, John took the rest of Sherlock's eggs. "You're all mental", he said to no one in particular, chewing slowly.

* * *

John left Sherlock tossing about the sofa in the midst of his typical tantrums for a tedious day at the surgery. Towards the end of his shift a text from Lestrade arrived.

_My wife's left me. –GL _

John's sighed in sympathy and replied hurriedly.

_Sorry mate. Join you for a pint? –JW_

_Please. Already here. –GL _

When John arrived to the stuffy pub they sometimes met up in after work, Lestrade was already tipsy. Unenthusiastically settling for an evening of maudlin conversation, John got himself his own beer, preparing himself for hours of slurred, slightly angry, drunken, and weepy tirades, arm almost falling off from continuously patting Lestrade on the back very awkwardly. As it neared midnight, Lestrade, who had been drinking like a fish, was as sloshed as a hamster on fermented berries and was therefore completely loopy. The loopy DI hence went on to broach a topic John was wholly unprepared for.

"I wish I had found what you and Sherlock have, ya know", he garbled the words together and slopped a large amount of alcohol down his front while John coughed violently into a glass of club soda. "You guys are _soooooo_ in love. I can see it", he said, looking miserable and then, with a suddenness that was alarming, grinning like a mad man. "And you'll loooove him forever. And he'll loooove you forever", he sang loudly, flailing his arms around in a strange dance and almost poking John's eyes out.

"We're not in love, Greg." He said, pulling the almost empty bottle from the dangerously brandishing arms and pinning them down.

"Oh, shtop denying it", said Lestrade, almost falling off his stool. "I won't tell anyone, I shwear. Except-", he blinked confusedly and John threw one of his arms around his soldiers and hoisted him up, "- except Sally. I only told Sally."

John groaned as he heaved Lestrade towards the street. "_Donavan?_ You told Donavan? She'll tell _everyone!_"

"Oh yes, yes. She was jusht there you shee and –", Lestrade burped, giggled and swiftly forgot what he was saying. "What wash I saying?"

John rolled his eyes and, huffing against the limp weight of the giggling detective inspector, somehow managed to flag down a cab. It was past one am when John tiredly tiptoed up to his room and walked into a sight that made him want to clasp his hand together and positively coo.

The stroppy detective he'd left laying on the couch that morning was now lying in his bed, curled up with his knees drawn up and snuggling the blanket to his chest, face buried in John's pillow. His pale feet poked out from under the sheets, nestled together. John smiled at them softly as he stripped, feeling a sudden rush of affection for his friend.

He tucked the blankets around the cold feet and slipped into the already warm bed, facing Sherlock's back and watching his body rise and fall peacefully. He'd later blame it on the two bottles of beer he'd consumed, but John was overcome with the sudden urge to take the man in his arms and curl up against him.

Oh what the hell, John thought as he wriggled forward to put one arm over the warm body. The entire Scotland Yard thought they regularly shared a bed and more; might as well do it properly. He nonchalantly tucked his face into his friend's springy curls and slept.

* * *

**Hi. **

**Thanks so much you guys for the reviews! They make me positively giddy. I'm sorry if I took too long to update, I decided to go trekking and now I have to walk literally two miles for internet access. :3 Sherlock's to get quite jealous and upset with John in the next chapter, of which I have completed half. **


	4. Chapter 4

"John ! Jhooooooooonn!"

"WHAT", John yelled back as he stumbled through the door and promptly tripped on something laying haphazardly across the floor. (_'Is that a bone_?')

"Johhnnnnn", Sherlock yell–moaned again.

"Oh John, dear, I'm so glad you're back." Mrs. Hudson rushed down the stairs towards him wringing her hands and looking thoroughly flustered. "The idiot boy, he's hurt himself and he's been calling for you for the past –"

"I'll see to him, Mrs. Hudson", John interrupted, giving her arm the most comforting pat he could muster as his name stridently made itself heard again, before rushing up the stairs to find Sherlock in the pajamas he'd been in yesterday, blue robe and disheveled hair complete with the safety goggles, lying on the floor with his knees up to his chest, one arm cradled in the other.

"John", he moaned weakly.

"What's wrong?" John fought down a mad rush of panic as he crouched over the lump of pale skin and bones. "Sherlock, what is it?"

"My arm", Sherlock moaned dramatically. "It's broken – DON'T" he scrambled away from John awkwardly, wriggling his behind and kicking out his legs. "Don't touch it."

John, the epitome of patience, was not dissuaded. "Sherlock, you have to let me examine it." This was met with a glare.

"You needn't examine anything, John, just get me some painkillers. And tea."

It was a good thing, John decided, that he'd had so much experience with three year olds in his career.

"Now, now Sherlock, we have to decide if your arm is actually broken or not. You'll need a cast if it is. Let me examine it and it'll be over with. Come on now, come on Sherlock".

Sherlock merely gave him another rather off-center glare, a stray curl falling into his left eye, and wriggled further until he was almost under the table.

"I'll be very gentle. It won't even hurt." John, undeterred as ever, advanced on the six foot baby.

Sherlock crawled under the table. "Painkillers", he said, and John could _hear_ his pout.

It took a considerable amount of time and patient coaxing to cajole the consulting five year old out of underneath the table and even more time just to let him touch – lest examine the frighteningly swollen and very blue arm. John asked how he'd even hurt himself in the first place, and instantly regretted it.

He'd been chasing a goat, apparently, when he tripped on the robe and fell on his arm.

"– And all I required was a bit of its tail, you see",said he,"and as I had gotten that, I came back to the flat and was conducting the necessary experiments when this overwhelming surge of pain just shot up my –"

"_Why_, Sherlock?" John interrupted.

"Because it's broken, of course."

"No, why did you need a bit of a goat's tail? Where did you find a goat in London in the first place? _You ran around London in your robe chasing a goat?_ No! Okay no, don't answer that", he added hurriedly, as Sherlock had probably deleted the concept of rhetorical questions again and had thus opened his lovely mouth to tell John exactly why.

"It's not broken", John said, pushing himself up, thighs and calves aching from crouching for so long. "Only sprained. I'll bandage it and give you some painkillers and you'll be just fine. Get up and sit on the sofa, Sherlock, god only knows what kind of vile substances you've spilt and let dry on that floor."

"_Help _me", Sherlock's uninjured hand came up to wrap around John's ankle. "Help me up to the sofa, John."

"You made it back to Baker Street and started an experiment on your own", John said incredulously, and pulled up the lanky detective anyway, who leaned against him and sighed heavily as though he was under great anguish. John, being John, humored him and led him to the sofa.

"Now stay still while I get the bandages and I can get to my date. I'm already-"

"Date?" Sherlock's miserable, all-suffering expression dropped without delay as his eyes narrowed. "Oh yes, you do", he said as John shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Then he pouted. "A date", he huffed, extremely put off. "Don't go."

John rolled his eyes and strode off in search of the much needed bandages.

"But I'm hurt!"

"I'm not going to stay here all night and coddle you, Sherlock", He called, "as much as you'd like that. I haven't gotten laid in ages and your sprained arm isn't going to cock block, so we're just going to – oh great."

Sherlock had curled in on himself like a great earthworm again, back facing the exasperated doctor.

"Don't go", John barely heard the grumble muffled by the cushions.

"Come on, Sherlock", John tugged on his shoulder. "I have to go. I have needs. I'm not like you. Come on don't be such an arse".

Sherlock, petulant as ever, shrugged off his hand. "I'll bandage it myself."

The doctor had learned, in the first month of living with this festival of eccentricities, that once he was dismissed there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. So, the good doctor nodded once at the silk clad back, since Sherlock seemed to have eyes at the back of that curly head anyway, and moved around fixing himself up.

"Don't wait up", he said to the unmoving lump of Sherlock and earned himself a grunt.

The union jack pillow thrown at him as he exited hit him square on the head.

* * *

The pleasantly fresh-faced, red-headed nurse from his ward would've been pleasant company, the date perfectly pleasant and the sex pleasant as well if John's impertinent mind hadn't insistently lurked around one peculiar flat mate and whether or not John had accidentally hurt his feelings, if one could even manage such a thing with Sherlock. And as it were, the doctor couldn't recall a time when he hadn't slept like a hibernating mammal after a satisfactory orgasm, so the situation was strange per say when he spent half the night trying make as little noise as possible on his seemingly impossible mission of finding a comfortable position on the unfamiliar mattress.

What was even stranger was how accomplished his thoughts had become in lurking around a certain mad genius, and was currently taking John on a not so delightful trip of immense guilt around the shouldn't-have-left-Sherlock-alone-when-he-asked-m e-not-to-ville. When he got to wondering if he would sleep better tonight if this were his bed and Sherlock was in it, John demanded the thought carriage turn around and make its way out of Holmes-town. Momentarily.

John turned over for the hundredth time and looked at the creepy shadows thrown across a wall. He watched as a spider climbed out of the shadows and made its way to the ceiling and briefly wondered if it had found anything to eat. He wondered if Sherlock had eaten.

He sighed and turned over again.

* * *

_Aaaahh whip me. Stone me. With boulders. I deserve it. _

_I apologize, dear readers, deeply and profusely at how long it has taken me to update this. I've just been unbelievably busy being super lazy and watching LOST nonstop all over again. Soorrryy. eee. D: _


	5. Chapter 5

When John returned to 221B in the morning, anxiety slowly building at the kind of tantrum or the kind of cold shoulder the detective would greet him with this time ('_Please,please _let it be a tantrum'), the flat was devoid of Sherlock, his scarf and his huge coat. The blue dressing gown lay crumpled halfway across the room.

Frowning at the confusing amount of disappointment, John ventured further into the flat and promptly slipped on a very slimy substance on the floor, skidding across the room with a yell and smacking his head on the wall.

"Ooh Ooh", sounded Mrs. Hudson from the door as John clutched his head in pain, cursing Sherlock and his penchant for slime. "I heard you yell, dear, everything all right?" Without waiting for an answer, she walked in and set a bag of groceries on the table. "Sherlock's been up all night, throwing things around and making a lot of noise. Did you have a date again? I didn't get any sleep."

That made it the two of them, and Sherlock never slept anyway. Except when he slept with John. There was the guilt again.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, you know how he gets."

"Oh, no matter dear, I'll take a nap in a bit. He left early this morning, seems he has a case. That should keep him occupied."

"Did he say where he was going?" John said, wondering why Sherlock hadn't texted him.

"Oh no, he left in a rush." Mrs. Hudson put away the last of the groceries and made her way out. "You're getting late for work, dear."

Maybe Sherlock would be back when he got back, John thought, and stumbled on a test tube.

* * *

Five hours later, the flat was still mournfully empty and a text had yet to announce itself. John had fired off a text of his own asking the detective of his whereabouts about two hours ago, and there had been no reply. John set about to make tea to calm his inexplicably jittery nerves and when the doorbell chimed as the kettle was about to boil, John couldn't have been more relieved.

Much to his annoyance and disappointment, however, it was not Detective Holmes that smirked at him from the door, but British Government Holmes that leaned against a brolly and…well, smirked at him.

"Sherlock isn't home", he told Mycroft.

"Ah, is he not?" From the look on his face, John knew Mycroft knew exactly where Sherlock was.

"Tea?"

"Oh yes please", Mycroft lowered himself elegantly into Sherlock's chair, distastefully eyeing the spot where the slime had dried. "Some biscuits too, if you have them."

John obliged, resigning himself to another foray into Baby Brother Holmes's life.

Mycroft, never one to mince words, (unless Sherlock was around, of course, in which case Mycroft minced words until Sherlock was ready to mince him), got straight to the meat of things.

"My brother has taken a fancy to sleeping with you, it seems", He said, raising his tea cup to his lips. John inhaled a copious amount of his tea.

"W-What", John choked out, spluttering wildly as tea slid out of his nose and Mycroft watched in mild amusement. The bastard.

"Cuddly, is he not?" Mycroft continued while John blinked rapidly. "I remember when he was three and couldn't sleep." He took a sip. "He used to climb into my bed as Mummy wouldn't let him into hers. Terribly cold feet, always."

The image of tiny Sherlock climbing into his big brother's bed with cold feet and ruffled curly hair was impossibly cute even through a haze of a burning nose, and John couldn't help but smile softly at it. Mycroft continued, the same soft smile thawing his cold countenance.

"Once, when I was away at boarding school and he was about four, he fell out of his 'tree-ship' and fractured his left leg. Apparently, he didn't say a word about it until his tutor caught him grimacing every few minutes."

John raised his eyebrows, disbelieving. When the detective was injured he made it known, loud and clear and constantly.

"His rabbit died that same year while I was home. I found him sniffling alone, quietly, at the end of the garden. He clutched at me and wondered why he was so sad."

Now that sounded like Sherlock. John sipped his tea, wondering where this was going.

"My point, Doctor, is that my brother dear is no more a sociopath than he is a pirate. He has strange ways of seeking affection and it doesn't happen often. He has a tendency to get bored with emotions, obviously because he doesn't understand them."

John took another sip and nodded.

"If he took a fancy to you, he wouldn't know it himself." John chocked again. He reminded himself wildly _not _to eat or drink while Mycroft Holmes happened to be talking.

"You're saying he crawls into my bed because he fancies me?" John inquired incredulously, coughing,as Mycroft set down his tea cup, looking smug.

"He seeks your approval and attention,he hates your dates and does everything in his capacity to interrupt them and throws fits suitable for a child when he fails to. More importantly, for a self proclaimed sociopath he spends a rather large amount of time laughing and being generally immature with you, don't you think?" Mycroft said, looking as though he'd presented John with the explanation to every mystery in the universe.

"He's Sherlock", John reasoned, setting down his tea cup as well. "He wants attention constantly anyway, and he spends time with me because we're friends and I'm apparently a 'conductor' of light'."

Mycroft smirked loftily and got to his feet. John followed suit.

"I trust you'll bandage that sprained hand of his properly when he gets back", He said, as John followed him to the door. "You _are _his doctor after all."

John nodded absently.

* * *

When John's phone read 1:00 am and Sherlock had yet to show signs of existence, John quit his pacing and rung the detective for the thirteenth time that night, praying to every god he knew of for him to be in one piece and_ pick up his damned phone._

"_What_, John?" Sherlock's voice snapped into John's ear and the doctor almost exhaled his lungs in relief. "I'm at Bart's. Go to bed."

"Come to bed", John said. "_Home_, I mean. Come home."

"I'm working."

"Work tomorrow."

"No."

"Please come home, Sherlock. Please."

John was met with silence.

"I'll be home in an hour." Sherlock softened. "Go to bed."

The good doctor waited patiently through the hour in his dark bedroom, ears prickling for the door to slam and for footsteps to pound up the stairs, his mind, yet again, replaying everything Mycroft had said earlier. He scoffed into the dark. Mycroft may not be as daft as his brother when it came to human emotions, both being aliens from a distant, far-away galaxy, but he was certainly not far from it. The door eventually slammed and footsteps made themselves heard.

Besides, even if Sherlock took a sudden, uncharacteristic fancy to him, John was uncertain of what Mycroft expected him to do about it. There was no denying that Sherlock was a _beautiful,_ absolutely gorgeous man, a massive genius with a multitude of endearing quirks to boot, but John wasn't _actually _gay.

Although, a part of John's brain pointed out, if a Holmes brother thought he was gay, he probably was. Bisexual, at least. But that would imply if a Holmes brother thought another Holmes brother fancied him, he probably did.

John shrugged that thought off, feeling mildly uncomfortable. He turned over and waited for another hour before he could no longer fight his persistently drooping eyelids. Slipping into a fitful sleep, the doctor awoke every twenty minutes or so for no apparent reason. Sherlock didn't join him.

* * *

_i swear these two will make out very very soon. I mean make up. _

_Thank you so so so much for all the wonderful comments. They make me very very veerrryyyy happy. Wheeee. Keep them coming please, and I promise I'll try my best-est best to update as soon as possible. I promise. Pinky. _

_Please feel free to point out any grammatical errors or mistakes that I haven't spotted, English not being my fist language and all. Thanks. _


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson, with his inconspicuous cuddly-jumper, overnight bag in one hand, a grocery bag in another, a loaded gun slightly tenting his pocket, ambled up the stairs bearing all the exhaustion of a man who's been away from home forever. Well, an entire week. He sighed in happy relief as the door to the flat neared, thinking of warm tea, that mystery novel he'd bought sometime last year and maybe a glass of some good old hooch for his newfound inability to sleep. He entered 221B, gasped and jumped a foot in the air. The bags were dropped. The gun was out.

Before he could shoot, or blink, whichever took longer for the army doctor, the heavily swathed Arab sporting the massive, evilly glinting sword had, like an impossibly human lemur, leaped on the window sill and dived straight out. Confused and rather alarmed, John rushed forwards to see him on the street below, brandishing his sword madly and running, terrified pedestrians scrambling to get out of the lunatic's way.

Oh well. John shrugged, returned the gun to the drawer and picked up his bags, wondering if there were things in the flat wired to blow up. Not long later, while he was putting the groceries away amidst the plastic containers of fingers and eyeballs, Sherlock, arm now in perfect functioning order, casually climbed in through the window and looked at John. John looked at him.

"We had a guest", he said, gesturing with a bag of peas towards the window.

Sherlock nodded and straightened his jacket. "One of the more vicious ones."

"Tea?"

"Yes, please", Sherlock plopped himself on the settee. "You took the gun", he added, accusingly.

"Well I wasn't leaving you alone with my gun for a week", John explained his reasoning. He had little interest in coming back to the flat with the walls bearing more holes than Swiss cheese. "Besides, you seem just fine."

Sherlock grunted in mild disgust and tugged at his hair. He then brightened and in a few seconds he was twirling around the flat, recounting his latest adventures while John listened with mild envy, only sitting down to accept his tea. They had settled into this routine for a while now, tea, cases, experiments and Sherlock not sleeping with John. John _was_ rather concerned about _where _the detective was sleeping, because, unless he'd gotten one in the week John had been absent, Sherlock had yet to get himself a new bed.

And it wouldn't be absolutely terrible to wake up with that lean, lanky body wrapped around his own.

John felt an impending urge to bash his skull through a wall. He idly pondered if Mrs. Hudson would put that in their rent.

It had happened a couple of nights ago – John had been tossing and turning on a creaking motel bed, vigorously questioning the niggling feeling in his intestines when he suddenly wistfully wished – and we're veering wildly off John H. Watson's established sexuality here – for a certain aristocratic nose to be buried in his neck and a certain toned thigh against his crotch.

His brain froze, spun, and went into orbit around planet Holmes.

Since that fateful night, John had been wholly incapable of stopping rampant thoughts involving large expanses of pale, creamy skin and lovely pink cupid bows. Of the lean toned chest and the heavy erection that had once landed on his thigh. His groin responded more happily to these thoughts than he did.

So, many wildly inappropriate boners and late night fantasies later, the doctor found himself back home and staring at a show without really processing any of what they were screaming at one another, tea in hand while Sherlock Maybe-Gay-But-Married-To-My-Work Holmes, having stolen his laptop along with his heterosexuality, nudged John's thighs with his toes, trying to wriggle them under his bum, as usual. John, wondering why Sherlock wanted his toes under his bum in the first place, squirmed uncomfortably, trying to cover his discomfort.

Maybe if he covered it up enough it would go away.

Minutes later, Sherlock, having succeeded, stuck his entire foot under John's sensitive underside, making the older man yelp and jump up, sloshing the last of his tea onto the carpet.

Sherlock had the gall to look mildly affronted. "What's the matter with you?"

"You had your foot right against my scrotum!"

"It was nowhere close to your scrotum, John."

"It was dangerously close to my scrotum, Sherlock." Scrotum was such a strange word. "Why do you keep doing that anyway? Why do you require me to sit on your feet?"

"They're cold." Sherlock snapped, irritated, rubbing one foot against the other. "They're always cold."

"Put on some socks."

"They're dirty", he grumbled. "You're comfortable with sleeping together but not comfortable with this?"

"You _don't_ sleep with me anymore, Sherlock", John quite nearly whined before he could stop himself, immediately mentally slapping himself. Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, while his cheeks burned a ferocious red, before turning back to the laptop.

"I assumed you'd rather have one of your women up there," he said, his tone so icy John could have used it to cool his cocktail. Or his flaming humiliation."You only require me until you've found someone to _copulate _with."

John stared at his dark haired friend, flummoxed and utterly uncomprehending. _It's not like you copulate with me. _

"Takeaway for me. Just the usual, thanks," he said, sounding cuttingly aloof, still not looking at John.

He obediently turned away to make the order, wondering what the hell it was that Sherlock wanted.

* * *

They ate in silence, read in silence, and when John finally began to think he might have just gone deaf and it wasn't actually so mind-numbingly quiet, (_honestly, what happened to noises from the street?), _he brushed his teeth in silence and trudged upstairs to lay in his still painfully Sherlock-free bed, waiting for sleep in silence, until John was fairly certain he would go berserk and blow a gasket.

His watch read midnight as John sighed, kicked his legs off the bed and made towards the door, not exactly sure why. Maybe he could get a glass of milk…maybe even some biscuits. He marched briskly down the stairs, army gait galore, already reveling in the thoughts of warm milk and chocolate digestives. Or maybe he'd make hot chocolate instead.

This train of thought crashed, burned and died instantly as he walked in on one Sherlock Holmes, stretched out on the sofa, clad in John's ratty, old t-shirt and too short pajama bottoms that clung low on his hips. The shirt, also quite short in length, _although_ too wide for this trim body, was riding up dangerously, exposing a huge amount of his midriff, one elegant hand spayed across the slightly sweating skin, (_why was he sweating?),_as he lightly dozed. As though feeling John's hungry – no – _ravenous_ gaze on him, Sherlock grunted and shifted, eye's fluttering open and settling on his flat mate.

How John's knees didn't give out at that exact moment those gleaming orbs of beauty turned to gaze at him through the impossibly long, _impossibly _dark eyelashes, John would never find out, because right at that moment his brain completely shorted itself out, got to its knees and _worshiped._

"_John", _rumbled the gravelly voice.

"Sherlock", the good doctor approached the sleuth, feeling as though he might just _die_ if he didn't crop a good feel of him. _Now. _

"John, are you going to _mmph -" _

Their noses bumped, Sherlock twitched under calloused fingers and every cell in John's body celebrated in little bursts of joy as two pairs of lips, both dry and chapped, both firm and insistent, met and moved roughly against each other . Soon they were entangled around each other, John straddling thin hips, hands tangling in errant curls and Sherlock made a low rumbling noise, grabbed a fistful of his night shirt and tugged. John returned the tug at the base of Sherlock's skull and he yelped into John's mouth and broke off,flushed, mouth parted and breath coming out in heavy gasps.

He pulled away panting, looking up at John, eyes wide and lips swollen, looking completely debauched.

"You're good at this."

"They don't call me three continents Watson for nothing," John joked.

Before it had even registered, Sherlock's eyes had narrowed and gaze had sharpened, and he was pushing John off, maneuvering himself from underneath him. In a whirl of movement, as John stood and watched in mild confusion, mouth hanging open gormlessly, Sherlock had thrown on the coat and stomped across the room.

The door slammed and the flat was silent once more.

* * *

_Well. Um _

_Are there goats in London? _

_I don't know if I want John to follow Sherlock or discuss this heatedly at a crime scene. What do you guys want? _


	7. Chapter 7

_"They don't call me* three continents Watson for nothing." So sorry._

* * *

It took about two seconds for the doctor to stop gaping at the closed door as though it were the strangest thing on the planet – which it wasn't, as Sherlock had so gracefully whisked away that particular title. It took another two for his slothful nerve impulses to reach the end of the right nerve endings and elicit the right response.

To be fair, it _was _the middle of the night, and John, as we have seen time and again, does tend to sometimes be denser than the Amazonia basin. So there was a solid five second gap – a second to slip into shoes – between John and the Consulting Drama Queen as they both speeded, (stomping in Sherlock's case), out of the building, possibly waking an irritated Mrs. Hudson as the doors slammed. Twice.

"Sherlock!" John barked at the back of the ridiculous looking detective with his four inches of bare legs and stripped pajamas sticking out under the overcoat. "_Sherlock!" _

They hurried around a corner.

"Bloody _hell, _come back to the flat and tell me what the matter is, will you? Where are you going? It's freezing out here! _Where are you going?" _

_"_Oh come _on_, Sherlock", he whined, shivering. "Are you just walking blindly? Come back to the flat. You don't even have shoes on! Your feet will be cold."

"They're _always _cold, John", Sherlock yelled back at him, stopping and whirling around, looking positively distraught. "They are _always _cold!"

John stopped too, standing in the cold in his underpants and a sleep shirt and a pair of shoes, looking, he imagined, perfectly ridiculous. The streetlight Sherlock had stopped under illuminated the pale face – lips still bearing signs of what they'd been doing. Something about the earnest vulnerability, the raw emotion on the usually stoical countenance made John's heart, and quite possibly all of his vital organs, clench painfully.

"Sherlock what's – ",

Huffing, he whirled around again, coat billowing oddly behind him, and stomped off angrily, his fists clenched into a tight ball of bony skin.

"Oh come _on, _can we just _talk _about this like reasonable adults. Sherlock don't walk away from – WOAH."

There are moments when John's neurons and muscles don't work quite well together and there are also moments, for which everyone is truly thankful for, when John's reflexes decide to work splendidly. In this very moment, as a huge carved knife cut through the cold air, making it's speedy way towards Sherlock, John lunged, tackled and landed, the knife only managing to slightly graze the tip of his ear.

They landed in a heap, Sherlock falling with a high pitched "_oomph_" and John sprawled on top of him. The blade lay embedded in the pavement. John could feel his heart in his throat and Sherlock's heart racing against his chest.

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

Sherlock was squirming under him, trying to push him off. He obliged and got to his feet, lightly touching the tip of his stinging left ear and feeling blood while putting out one cold hand for Sherlock, who duly ignored it and hauled himself up.

Alright then. John looked around cautiously.

"What _was_ that?"

The answer came as a resounding thud as a large figure, covered head to feet in black, came flying off a roof and landed, with cat-like agility, on the pavement not far feet away. John took a step back in surprise at the figure jumped up and hurtled right towards them, another blade glinting in the dim light.

"The _fuck!" _

Without so much as a glance backwards, the two ripped down the street, the attacker hot at their heels, and around another corner, diving into a twenty-one hour deli, where a sleepy waitress looked at the counter looked up at them balefully and then confusedly as John clutched a snitch at his side and Sherlock dragged a table to the door.

"Which way is the back exit", he asked urgently, scanning the room as the door rattled and John prayed for their lives. The next second, they were on the floor as the window was smashed in with a huge crash, glass shards flying everywhere. The waitress scrambled back, screaming and John stumbled to his feet, tugging Sherlock up and leading him out of the way. His bare feet were bleeding.

"_Which way?" _he yelled, as a knife went flying past them, and dragged Sherlock to the door the quivering finger pointed at, kicking it open. They stumbled out into the cold night again, and made a dash past the parking lot and into an alley.

"_Jesus_, Sherlock, why does half the middle-eastern population want you dead?"

"Don't stereotype, John", Sherlock, who was currently fiddling with the lock with the set of lock picks he, John thought, must have pulled out of his ear, on the door of what looked like an abandoned factory, muttered vaguely at him. A second later, the door was swinging open and they both hurried inside, promptly engulfed by the musty air and darkness. John stood in silence as his eyes adjusted and listened to Sherlock bolt the door shut.

The tiny flash-light which perpetually resided in one of Sherlock's many pockets lit up the small space they were enclosed in. Wooden crates were stacked on top of each other, piled up high, and a series of rusty iron bars lay on the floor haphazardly. Sherlock limped towards one and picked it up, motioning for John to do the same.

They waited. John breathed. Sherlock shifted.

"So –", John started to whisper.

"Shh."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Not now_, _John,_" _Sherlock said, through gritted teeth.

"But I kissed you. And you liked it. And you kissed me. And I liked it. What –"

"_Not now, John." _

"Why'd you storm out?" John persisted. "That's not what usually happens. Usually kissing leads to bed and bed leads to sex and –"

"I am _not_ going to be one of your sex toys", Sherlock hissed, suddenly turning to him and pointing the flash light right into this face, making him squint. "I'm not going to be someone you have your way with and then ignore because _you_ have needs that _I _apparently don't."

Oh. _Oh. _

"Sherlock I –"

Another huge crash interrupted John and he rolled his eyes as a window he had not noticed was there was smashed and glass shards were flying once more from the end of the room. The large, fiery fellow lunged at them again with the practiced war cry of the Romans and John brandished his weapon, aiming for his stomach, though not quickly enough. The raging maniac caught the iron bar and, with a strength that was frustratingly surprising, flung John into the wooden carts, which went crashing to the floor with a huge noise that was sure to wake up the whole of London. John grunted in pain and he hauled himself up, moving towards them as Sherlock caught him at the back of his knees and he dropped like a stone with a shout. He jumped right back up, stumbling slightly, and John caught his shoulder, spinning him around and socking him in the jaw.

"It's really not just sex," John grunted, keeping him pinned to the floor with his knees while Sherlock held his legs down. "I don't want to just have sex with you. I mean, I _want _to have sex with you. I would like that very much."

Sherlock yelped as John felt a leg jerk – he'd probably been kicked. He threw another blow at the man under him, who groaned, trashed and struggled.

"I honestly haven't thought about anything besides throwing you down and taking you this whole week. Many times. I can't even begin to count how many ways I want yo – aargh!" A knee connected very roughly with his crotch and John tumbled back into Sherlock, knocking him over, eyes screwed shut and writhing in pain. The heavily swathed man jumped up, fixing the headdress atop his skull.

"But I want more than sex with you, Sherlock", John managed through a haze of pain as he felt Sherlock jump up again. A series of clangs followed and the doctor weakly pushed himself on his elbows to watch Sherlock and the assassin engaging in a battle of fencing of sorts – with iron rods. Sherlock evaded a rather terrifying attack.

"You haven't made a very good show of it", he gasped, deftly ducking under another deftly swung swing. Another series of clangs followed. "Why would you want a relationship with me? I'm not the most agreeable person around and I obviously frustrate you and –" he caught his opponent in the ribs, drawing out a yell,"– I haven't cooked a day in my life and I'm fairly certain I can't."

"Cook?" John asked confusedly, and, with an unusual air of better judgment, he let it pass, getting to his feet. "Yes you frustrate me, Sherlock, and yes, you are the _least _agreeable person in all of London, possibly the world", he paused as Sherlock blocked a particularly nasty blow, his stomach jumping, "but I wouldn't actually make it was week without you. You know that. I constantly want, no, _need, _everything about you – your appalling rudeness, your constant cerebral fire, your unsavory experiments, everything Sherlock. You _know _that."

"I was hurt and you left me. I _asked _you to say." Duck, wield, side-step. It looked like a strange dance.

"I'm sorry."

"And you didn't make me tea."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need me when you have one of those pretty women to bed."

"I _love you."_

"You do no such thing!"

"I do. I swear. On every single one of my jumpers."

"Oh my god!" An unfamiliar American accent rang out and it was a second before John, much to his incredible astonishment, probably the most gigantic one he'd had this year,(as of yet), realized it was the apparently-not-a-hopped-up-nomadic-badass-desert-a ssassin speaking. "Can you not do this right now, guys, it's so disrespectful. And he obviously loves you, why, for the love of god, dude, _why, _don't you just accept the love and tell him you love him back."

"Mind your own business!" Sherlock grunted, and caught him in the head with a mighty force. With a sickening crunch, he fell and may have died. The room was filled with panting for a full minute and then Sherlock dropped his fake sword with a final clang.

He looked at John. John looked at him.

It was one of those moments. The moment after the first chase across London, the many moments after many such chases, after they had done the single most ridiculous thing and Sherlock looked at him like that, _just like that_, with that glowing, euphoric look, with that remarkable, beautiful intensity in his gaze. The moment shared before the laughter at the sheer absurdity of what had transpired emerged.

"I told you not to stereotype", he quipped, and the said laughter came, and John knew, had always known somewhere at the back of his mind, that he could never settle with anything else. Not after Sherlock.

"I do love you, Sherlock", he said, and all traces of laughter left both of their faces. "I do. I _do_."

There was silence. Then the man stirred slightly and moaned weakly. And promptly passed out again.

"We should call Lestrade", said Sherlock, jerking his head towards the prone body.

John silently agreed.

"Tea?" He asked, after Lestrade eyed them warily, John unabashed in his underpants, Sherlock in, frankly he couldn't even process what Sherlock was wearing, eyed the unconscious man warily, and shrugged it off tiredly and made them promise to come around the station when it was actually morning.

"Yes, please", Sherlock said, conjuring a cab.

He laid his head on John's shoulder as they sat in it and made their way to 221B and immediately slept like a weary puppy. He didn't wake as John dragged him up the stairs. He didn't wake as John tended the wounds on his lovely feet. He didn't wake as John pulled him to bed. He awoke briefly as John pulled him to his chest, mumbled something about a certain kind of bio-luminescent plankton, snuggled into John's neck, and then softly snored.

* * *

_I still couldn't decide what exactly should have happened because there were mixed opinions and I panicked for a little while. Because I do that sometimes. Thank you soo much for commenting though. _

_The lovely FrankandJoe3 suggested : what if they run into a crime scene? And my brain cells just kind of went wheeeeeeeeeeeee and turned it into this. I hope you like it. There will be one more chapter for resolving the remaining issues and morning sexiness because I like that. _


	8. Chapter 8

_A fair warning: There happens to be orgasms and a fair amount of cheesiness (pillow talk) in this chapter. _

* * *

Sherlock floated into consciousness, warm, happy and vaguely wondering who Adele was. Probably the prime minister.

_Irrelevant. Delete. _

He shifted slightly and inhaled a little of the smell of fresh sheets and a lot of the smell of John, enjoying the hard planes of muscles beneath his fingers where they lay on the other man's chest. One heavy arm was slung over his waist and one heavy leg was thrown over his slim hips. An erection lay proudly on his thigh.

Sherlock wanted to touch it.

"John", he rumbled into the fragrant neck his face was cradled in.

John grunted and wrapped himself more tightly around the detective.

"John?"

Sherlock felt his face nuzzle into his curls.

"John?"

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," John's sleep infused voice sounded from above him.

That surprised the detective into a momentary silence. Sobriquets?

Well, it was rather nice, as long as no one else happened to be lurking around to hear. Sherlock imagined, against his will, Donavan, or, god-forbid, Anderson, hearing him being called _sweetheart_. He would be absolutely mortified.

Even more mortified than when _Mycroft_, of all people, had pointed out he was deeply in love with a certain army doctor about a week ago.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, dear brother", he had said, looking smugger than ever – and Sherlock had wanted to vigorously throttle him – "you are certainly irrevocably – no now, do _not _throw that at me – in love with the darling doctor. As he is with you, trust me."

Sherlock had settled with poking him on the chest with the end of a thermometer. _So there. _

Frankly the idea had been nothing short of absurd. _Trust me. _Sherlock had scoffed. When it came to matters such as the one that was insistently at hand, Sherlock could think of three people who he'd rather trust over his elder brother, and two of them happened to be in prison for murder. But taking all things into account in that contemplative half-an-hour where Sherlock had slapped on three nicotine patches, as the occasion required, and watched the pretty pink nylon socks John's sister had gotten him for Christmas go up in flames in the grate, (it really had flamed like anything), he decided his brother was really quite right.

He was in _love. _

He, Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, a massive well of idiosyncrasies, eccentric genius extraordinaire with all his self-proclaimed sociopathic glory, had fallen in love. With John Watson. John who was loyal and sweet, kind and accepting in the way that no one was, dangerous with _nerves of steel,_ and so impossibly _cuddly. _

John, an endless haven of patience and forgiveness. John, who he tolerated, who tolerated _him. _

The knowledge came with a bewildering amount of nauseating dizziness and anxious insecurity and Sherlock had devoted most of his energy flying restlessly about the flat while Mrs. Hudson continually shouted something at him from downstairs. He then calmed down slightly and settled down into an almighty brood. Ten minutes into the said brood, his recalcitrant mind was already, as per usual, straying off into the area of John's delectable body, his amazing mouth; how his normally tidy hair looked so sexy when it was sleep mussed, how mouth-wateringly well hung he happened to be.

And now, a week later, he was dangerously and excitedly boarding the same train of thought because the thick erect prick rested contentedly on his thigh and his own cock was responding with merriment. It was only natural.

He looked at the patch of tanned, scented skin his face was resting against and wondered what it would taste like. He wriggled closer, groaned a little at the sensation and licked.

John's warm hand trailed tantalizingly down his spine. Sherlock, mildly encouraged, bit.

The results were instantaneous and very very arousing_. _

With a low groan, the doctor's back arched into Sherlock's body, thigh coming to meet his crotch. Sherlock was only just gasping when he was suddenly flipped onto his back and was being straddled. He found himself looking up into the dilated pupils of John H. Watson and then he was being pressed into the pillow, wet lips meeting his own in a long, heated kiss.

As far as Sherlock's prior experience went, regardless of the night before, kisses were fumbling, pointless and boring. But this – oh _this – _was anything but. His mind, usually rocketing about, stuttered and shut down and soon he was gasping into John's mouth as their tongues tentatively touched and warm hands trailed down his sides, resting on his hips. His own hands found purchase – one in John's hair and the other squeezing John's toothsome arse.

They writhed together, touching and panting and soon Sherlock thought he might _die _from the lack of blood to his vital organs. John seemed to be on the same page, for two fingers hooked onto the band of Sherlock's boxers, tugging, while his neck got nipped, sucked and bitten.

_Oh god. _

The scanty pieces of clothing were done a quick job of, and rigid erections were freed with haste. Sherlock relished the feel of his naked body against John's skin and ("_ah") _John's dripping cock against his own. Soon Sherlock was rutting lustily against one firm thigh, eyes shut and head thrown back, while John slicked his palm and minutes later they were both thrusting into his fist and against each one another, moaning wantonly, slick, wet sounds bouncing around the walls and spurring them on.

"_Joohnn", _Sherlock moaned, his voice an octave higher and quivering as jolts of pleasure zinged up and down his spine, coiling at the bottom of his stomach. He watched, eyes hooded, as John moved with him, skin glazed with sweat and jaw slack. "Jooohn – _oh!" _ His hands dug into warm flesh as John sped up, bracing one hand besides Sherlock head and bending over to capture his lips in a dirty kiss.

With a grunt, John pulled back, head hanging and eyes wide. "Oh fuck", he swore, gasping and rocking with a wild abandon. "Oh _fuck, fuck – Sherlock." _

With a cut off sound, John was suddenly coming, sending Sherlock sprawling over the brink as well, arching and gasping in a dire need for air, shuddering in ecstasy. John collapsed next to him, trailing a finger through the semen across his belly and chest, and placed a gentle kiss on his temple.

Sherlock struggled to get his brain online.

He felt John wiping him with the tissues from the nightstand, and blinked up at his softly smiling face. "Morning", he said softly, a sudden rush of embarrassment causing his face to heat up.

John smiled wider, eyes crinkling in amusement, and pushed a sweaty curl off his forehead. "Hi."

Sherlock grasped for words, one hand wrapping around John's wrist. His pulse was still strumming quickly, heightened from their morning exertion. "We should do that more often."

John huffed a laugh, eyes twinkling endearingly. "Yes. Definitely." He paused. "Dates?"

Sherlock squinted in consideration. "Yes, I'd be amenable."

John was suddenly serious, wiping the sweat off Sherlock's brow lightly with the back of his hands. "I do love you, you know. I do. Probably since you deduced the first thing about me. Ever since 'Afghanistan or Iraq' came out of that proud, beautiful mouth of yours. It took me a while."

Sherlock shifted and blinked, gazing up at the man, and thought about his parade of girlfriends, all who had left him for his loyalty to Sherlock. He thought about the last procession of one night stands John had taken to, having given up on long term relationships, because of Sherlock. If there had been doubts the week prior, the night before, there seemed to be none now.

"I love you, Sherlock." The proclamation soaked softly through his skin and warmed his insides.

He leaned in, stomach tingling and cheeks flushed, and placed a soft kiss on the stubbled jaw. "I love you as well, my dear blogger. Now if we could go again, that would be very pleasant."

John laughed his lovely laugh and pulled him into another kiss. Sherlock smiled into it, blissful and content.

* * *

_This was exceedingly fun to write. Not just the bit where they engage in recreation of the sexual nature - which I have never written before, (considering the amount I've read though, I reckon I should be fine) - but the entire thing. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyoouu to everyone who stuck with my experiment in fluff and humor and Johnlock, you've made everything so much happier ! Thoughts on this last chapter will be super enthusiastically awaited !  
_

_**MORE** : I've been working on a superlock (is that a coined term?) fic - Sherlock + Supernatural crossover. If any of you like Supernatural maybe, if you want to, head over to my profile and give it a read? It's titled 'Run' and I've got two chapters up so far and I'd love some feedback please. Thanks! _


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